


Reality

by objectlesson



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Coping Mechanisms, Dean's Deal, Disassociation, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Illness, Sam's broken wall, Season 3, Trauma, bloodplay (kind of), dub con, knifeplay (kind of), mentions of Lucifersex in the pit, non con/ dub con with the devil, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:11:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s used to it; this is the way things have been since things between them became confused, muddy, blurred. Which has been basically forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reality

**Author's Note:**

> This story happened because I was thinking a lot about topping/bottoming dynamics in Supernatural and how much they could change over the course of Sam and Dean's history. And then I thought about reality, and Sam's wavering grasp on it, and how that played into such dynamics. I think the halves of this story are connected. I hope you do, too. Also, I apologize for Lucifer sounding like Q. I've never written him before. I have written Q. Seemed like a natural jump from one to the other. 
> 
> I don't own them!

\----

Sam is burning up in his bed. His bed, not his bed. Just a bed, one of the million motel beds he’s been sleeping in as far back as his memories go, the same over-firm or sagging mattress, the stains and the rubbery sheets and the lingering nicotine smell because smoking rooms are always the last ones available. His skin sticks to the gross, beige, insulating blanket that most motels use to make their beds, hot and itching. 

It’s always like this, when something happens with Dean. The heat, the itch. The way his flesh crawls with longing, his erection thick and insistent even though he already jacked off in the shower after they came home, grit in their clothes and gravel in his palms. 

Dean gets under his skin in a way that can’t be shaken with just one night. Sam’s used to it; this is the way things have been since things between them became confused, muddy, blurred. Which has been basically forever. As far back as Sam’s memories go. 

When they were kids they were too young and stupid to know what they were doing. It made sense, it felt right. Later, after middle school and learning dirty words, changing in the locker room after PE with all those sweating boys and their changing bodies, Sam figured out what it was. Was able to name it, quarantine it, try and cut it out of his body, 

Now, he’s too far gone, too far beyond and outside that world he discovered when he was a teenager. He doesn’t even _care_ , he just _wants_ Dean, wants him because he’s _his_ , because Dean sold his fucking soul four months ago at the Devil’s Gates and that means they only have eight left. Sam shoves that thought out of his mind, reminds himself that they’re gonna have the rest of their lives, because he’s going to save Dean. He has to. Dean’s _his_ , and its his turn to take care of him. 

He thinks of his brother, asleep or faking sleep on the other bed. He thinks of the skyline of his body, the jagged jut of his bones against the wall of some shit motel, any shit motel. The skyline of Sam’s history, the only consistent skyline, the only thing that’s been there since the beginning as more than a blur. Dean. The smell of Dean, the sight of him, the curve of his shoulder, the mussed brown of his hair poking up over the bedspread, his right foot in a blue sock, kicked out from under the covers. The pain of Dean. Sam’s only reality in a memory made of stories, fictions and half-lies and so many motel beds in so many cities and shit-kicker towns he’s lost count. Dean is his more certain map of his own memory than anything folded and coffee-stained in the backseat.

Dean’s the only real thing. It makes sense that Sam needs _that_ part of him, too. He slides his hand down his chest, across his twitching abdominals, to curl his fist around his own dick, and thinks of the rest-stop back in Indiana, when Dean started some stupid fist-fight with him that ended in both of their backs getting scuffed up on parking lot cement. Sam still has minute bits of gravel imbedded in his palms and a busted lip that’s already scabbing over. That, and Dean’s taste still burning on his tongue, the fierceness of his kisses imprinted in smoldering iron onto the surface of his consciousness, reopening old wounds.

Lately, all their fights have dissolved into this. Fever, kissing, rough hands yanking belts out of the loops, Dean’s come smeared into the coarse hair under Sam’s navel. Sam’s sleep has been blown to pieces, stolen fragments where he dreams of the chaotic green Dean gets in his eyes when he’s just a little drunk, the way the neck of that one shirt has gotten so stretched out it shows the line of Dean’s collarbone, paler than the rest of him.

Sam is counting down the months, so he knows Dean must be, too. And Dean wants him, too. Dean _needs_ him. Sam can tell because Dean is so hung up on the whole thing, more sick with himself for wanting his baby brother, so devastated by what it means about them, but he _still_ can’t shove Sam off when they’re jammed together in some bar bathroom with whiskey on the floor, whiskey in their blood. 

Still, he can’t resist. Sam can’t resist anymore, either, but he doesn’t even _care_ what it means. He just wants. He turns his head along his flat, motel-issue pillow with the lipstick mark on the case, and tries to make out his more certain map the darkness, Dean’s shape in the moonlight. His dick twitches against his thigh. 

It can’t be long before Dean just gives in. Stops fighting himself and stops fighting Sam, and lets it all wash over him like something kept long brewing behind a dam in a storm. Lets Sam do whatever he wants to him, whatever he wants Sam to do to him. 

Sam doesn’t know if he can even wait for that to happen, tonight. He feels lost in his own bed, a kid unanchored, floating like refuse on the tide when everything his flesh longs for is right there, four feet away on his separate bed. It’s not just a matter of wanting to _fuck_ Dean, it’s a matter of _needing_ him. Needing him for his own sanity. Needing him because he’s _alive_ , and Sam’s not as certain as he’d like to be about how much longer that will be the case. 

He hovers, stuck in indecision for a moment before he remembers the scrape of Dean’s stubble across his own throat against the pavement in Indiana, Dean’s breath around the words, Don’t even know what you fuckin’ do to me, Sammy. 

He climbs into Dean’s bed, and fits their skeletons together, the divot in his ribs cradling Dean’s spine. 

Dean stirs, then jumps awake, tries to rip away but Sam holds him fast. “Dean,” he says, his voice blown apart into its bloodiest, rawest ghost, into tatters of his usual voice. “Dean, I need you. Now,” he mumbles, mouthing along Dean’s shoulder where the skin is hot and smooth from sleep. 

Dean shudders. He tenses, then slackens, then tries to pull into a protective curl again, but Sam is strong and Dean’s will is weak when it comes to his brother. “Sammy,” he whispers, thick and ragged, whites of his eyes catching whatever light in the room there is to catch. “Don’t make me do this.” 

“Do what?” Sam asks, moving to his hands and knees so he can straddle Dean’s hips, roll him onto his back and press the flat planes of his body into his brother’s, so much skin sliding and folding together. Dean gasps, jerks and twitches under Sam, but doesn’t deck him in the face. “You don’t have to do anything, Dean,” Sam tells him, certain of it, ready to take everything he needs. “Just _let me_. Please.” 

Dean’s head is turned away from Sam, his eyes shut tight as he wages his internal battle, tendons in his neck pulled tight and pulse flickering like it might thrum its way straight out of his flesh. Sam mouths over the visible beat of his heart, licks it, nudges higher so his lips are pressed behind Dean’s ear with a heavy, open-mouthed kiss. Dean’s breath escapes him noisily, and his body is electric with how hard he is trying to fight this want. 

“Dean,” Sam says again, this time grinding his cock into the hollow of his brother’s hip, skin hot to the touch. “Why the fuck not?” 

Dean laughs, low, dry. “Million reasons. I’m supposed to take care’f you,” he mumbles, head nodding towards Sam’s in spite of himself, lips nearing a space close enough to kiss. 

“Fuck,” Sam swears, dragging his palm through Dean’s hair. “Let me. You’ll be taking care of me. This is what I want. What I _need,_ ” he chokes, and whether Dean believes him or just can’t endure it any longer, suddenly they’re kissing. Deep, searing, tongues fighting and Sam’s knee grinding down hard between Dean’s steel-hard thighs against places even harder than steel. 

They claw at each other for awhile, rolling in desperate, clumsy arcs over one another’s bodies until Sam succeeds in pinning Dean onto his back, one hand clasped over both of his wrists above his head, the other on his hip, holding him down onto the mattress. “Stop,” he breathes and Dean freezes, whole body stilling as Sam shifts so he’s between Dean’s legs. He’s never seen Dean from this angle, the clenching of his stomach muscles, the stricken darkness in his eyes as he stares down at Sam licking his lips, one fist curled around the base of Dean’s cock. 

He doesn’t ask if he can before he does, tongue sliding hot and flat over the slit in Dean’s cockhead, because if Dean says no he’s going to do it anyway. He tastes salty, bitter, raw, sweaty and musky in this familiar way Sam remembers from long summer car-rides when the Impala’s back window was busted and they couldn’t roll her down. Sam’s vision swims, blood pounding in his head so loud he almost can’t hear the sounds Dean is making, the gravely rumble in his throat, and broken moans. He sucks Dean deep into his mouth, thinking that this is easy, it’s right, it’s instinctual, it’s _real_. 

Dean tastes real, real and imperfect and overwhelming. Sam’s drooling, his saliva is dripping from his lips and collecting on his fist, so he opens his palm so he can get his fingers wet with his own spit, with Dean’s dark-smelling sweat. _This is my brother_ he thinks, and his dick throbs where it’s trapped against the sheets under him. _This is Dean_. He moans around Dean’s dick, fervently flicks his tongue against the underside not because he thinks it might make Dean feel good, but because it feels good to him and he is completely lost in his own feeling. 

It must feel good for Dean too though, because his legs spasm on either side of Sam’s head, tighten and lock as he writhes against the mattress. “Fuck, Sammy, your mouth, baby,” he blurts mindlessly, grinding his head against the pillow. 

Sam’s stomach flips over and clenches at the word _baby_ , his insides burning up and igniting with the terrible, incredible knowledge that this is _Dean_ , his Dean, his big brother, his reality, his map, his forever-skyline. He moans out loud, the sound muffled and clumsy over the mouthful of cock. Dean curses, his hands coming to pull at Sam’s hair. Sam gently lets his fingers brush over Dean’s hole, just to see if he freaks out, pulls away. He tenses, thighs shuddering and stomach becoming a hard, tense plane, but he doesn’t say anything. Sam keeps licking up the length of him, sucking the head of his dick as his fingers and their slick of spit nudge up inside Dean, the infernally hot, perfect clench of his brother. 

“Fuck,” Sam mumbles, disbelieving that Dean is doing this, opening up for him, letting him slide two long, thick, wide-knuckled fingers up into his ass. He sdrags them back out, then fucks up inside Dean, feeling his smooth insides contract and flex. “Does this hurt?” He breathes. 

Dean’s face is screwed up like it’s hurting him, but Sam can tell he’s being honest when he says “ _No_ ,”emphatically, spreading his thighs wider. “You feel fucking _amazing_ , Sammy. Never thought...never thought...”

“Christ, Dean. God, you _love_ this. _You love me here_ ,” Sam observes, in awe. And Dean _does_. He’s so pliant, so easily split and loosened by Sam’s fingers. Sam drools onto his ring finger and slides it up alongside the other two, burying them as far as they’ll go up inside Dean. 

“Yeah,” Dean pants, reaching between his legs to jerks his own cock, face and chest flushed such a deep red Sam has to bend at the waist to kiss his sternum, has to feel that flush under his lips. “Fuck, Sammy. Want your cock there,” Dean gasps. His voice is so full of air that Sam almost doesn’t hear it, but when he does, his gut twists into a knot, dick suddenly so impossibly thick and heavy with blood it aches. 

“I need to fuck you,” He tells Dean, not even caring about anything else, about how he might sound or look in his madness, his desperation. “I’ve needed it forever. I’ve been wanting to be inside of you as long as I’ve been fucking _born_ , Dean, just want to feel you there. From the inside out,” Sam babbles messily, kissing all over Dean’s thighs, stomach. He slides his fingers out and Dean flips over easily, pushes his ass into the air like he needs to be filled up _now._

Sam doesn’t even _think_ as he ducks his head down, holding Dean’s ass apart as he licks one long strip from Dean’s balls to his hole, where he smells musky and dirty and sleepy in a perfect way, his skin all fire and hunger. Dean freezes as Sam’s tongue pushes into him, his whole body becoming one electric line of alert, terrified suspension. The noises coming from him are wheezing and animal, like nothing Sam has ever heard come out of his brother before. Sam fucks the tight ring of muscle, fingers digging into Dean’s thighs, until he feels like he’s so loose and wet and hot that he can actually take his cock. 

He uprights himself, spreads his weight across the table of Dean’s back, and tries to align the head of his dick with Dean’s hole, but it’s too dark and he’s too desperate and clumsy to his his mark, so Dean reaches behind him and takes Sam in hand, guiding him where he wants him. Even as Sam slides in, Dean keeps his fingers at the place where they’re joined, touching the stretched-tight ring of muscle as it pulls to accommodate Sam. “Fuck,” he breathes, sliding back so Sam is buried in him balls-deep. “I never thought you would feel this good. Shoulda known, Sammy. Fuck.” He holds himself up on his knees and elbows, brow pressed into the mattress, back arched expectantly, ready. 

Sam wants to fuck him slow, wants to feel every inch of Dean from the inside out, but he doesn’t think he has the control to. Dean is too hot, too tight, his eyes too bright and green over his shoulder as he gazes at Sam, that mouth parted around his name. Sam’s shaking all over and he can’t help it, he starts hammering Dean like a dog, hips working the whole of his skin into a sweat-slick fervor. He leans over Dean, and his chest drips onto his spine. “Too hard?” He manages to say in syncopated, breathless syllables, and Dean shakes his head _no_ again, jacks himself off, the veins in his hands standing out in relief because his blood has been worked to the surface.

“No, baby. Feel just right. Need you like this. Yours, Sammy, gonna take care of you, need you to come inside me, babyboy, need--need you--” Dean’s words stagger out of him messily, how whole body jerking in time with Sam’s erratic, desperate thrusts. Their skin slaps together, and Sam’s mouth is open and drooling on the back of Dean’s neck, his hips snapping Dean into a splayed disorder until they both come. Dean all over his own chest and the sheets, Sam buried in his brother, fingers dug deep and bruising into the lines of muscle that frame Dean’s hips. 

Sam rolls off with static in his eyes, thinking he’s probably crushing Dean, half-caring but mostly missing the heat of his ass tight and spasming around his dick, those silken insides holding him in, swallowing him up. Dean’s a mess under him, lying in a puddle of his own come, limbs in every direction and a smear of blood and shit on his thigh. Sam wipes it off carefully with that stupid beige, half-plastic blanket, then tears it off the bed before collapsing next to his brother. “Thank you,” he says to Dean, voice hoarse and ernest. Dean doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t leave, either. 

They catch their breath, and Sam stares at the ceiling for a moment, before stopping to gaze at Dean’s back. It’s smooth, pale planes of muscle framing the laddered spine, the rolling hills of his flesh laid out on the bed like some more certain picture of Sam’s history. Sam reaches out, and gently thumbs up one jagged scar under the jut of Dean’s shoulder blade, an old thing he got from a Banshee while Sam was in Stanford. Dean shifts his weight, something in his neck twitching like he’s trying to get Sam’s hand off. Sam doesn’t move, he just traces down to the next mark, a burn-scar on Dean’s lower back from spirit on its way out. Sam follows the map, the map of Dean’s pain, and therefore, Sam’s pain. Dean’s reality, Sam’s reality. 

Dean quits trying to shove him off after awhile. They lie back to back on the same bed until Sam finally falls asleep, the burn under his skin replaced with a more manageable smolder. He’s drifting off as night becomes dawn, and he feels Dean roll over before he feels Dean’s mouth, rough and hot, on the nape of his neck, pressing a kiss there. He dozes back off under the weight of his brother’s arm, thinking about his own body and its map of scars, his own pain that Dean loves, protects. The reality Dean is dying for. But he pushes that thought out of his head, remembering that neither of them are dead yet. 

\---

“The way you look at your brother, Sam. So sweet. So many Kodak moments. I could just eat you _up_ ,” Lucifer quips from the corner, his fingers splayed on mock awww across his chapped mouth. 

Sam’s insides burn. His outsides bristle. He badly wants to say _shut up_ but he knows that it’s always harder to get rid of the devil if he acknowledges him, talks back, lets him in. So instead he shakes his head, stares past the screen of his laptop, keeps his eyes trained on Dean’s sleeping body. It’s a familiar thing, the line of it so comforting in its constancy Sam could trace it with his eyes closed. The slope his shoulder, down to the sharp cut of his ribs as they fall into the smooth indent of narrow hips. His thigh, straight and strong. Lower. Sam knows it all, Sam has it welded into his memory. 

“Or maybe you want to eat _him_ up. I know what your brother and you do, Sam. It was all you ever talked about in the cage, when I made you beg--”

“Shut up,” Sam says, automatic because he can’t stand to hear those things brought out into the light. He never has. 

Lucifer laughs. “I love it when you tell me to shut up. It’s adorable.” 

Sam digs his thumb into the scar on his palm, the long-worried, slightly raised contour of it. He sees Lucifer flicker out of the corner of his eye, like a holograph image, _help me obi wan kenobi, you’re my only hope_ , but he doesn’t disappear. Dread sits icy and thick on Sam’s gut. 

“I also love how you _keep trying_ , you plucky little soldier. Also adorable.” Lucifer walks up behind Sam, footsteps echoing on the floor, heat of his body suffocating in its nearness. Before Sam discovered that hallucinations could be synesthetic and multi-sensory, he thought the acrid sulfur smell and the insufferable waves of heat which always accompanied the image of the devil _had_ to prove that his life back on earth, back with Dean, were a fiction. That he was still in the cage, burning up, being made to beg. 

But he knows now. Or, at least he _tries_ to know. “Not real,” he mumbles to himself, blinking. 

“Not real,” Lucifer echoes, high-pitched and sing-songy, hot breath skirting across Sam’s neck, at the nape where he used to kiss Sam, leaving one fluid-filled blister for eternity. Sam’s hand flies instinctively to that spot, rubbing the smooth, miraculous unscathed skin there. 

“Sam. Get a grip,” Lucifer tells him, sidling over so he’s standing in front of the circular motel table Sam’s all spread out at, his laptop and folders of research papers on Dick Roman’s latest whereabouts scattered and catching fire, shuddering to ash. “If I’m ‘not real’ then all of my favorite spots, they’re not bleeding like they did back in the cage. Even _I_ know that. Just like how I knew all of Dean’s favorite spots on that freakishly huge body of yours, the spots I had to make mine--”

Sam sits up hard, uprights his chair which clatters to the ground, swings his left fist so hard into the air that the momentum swings him around and he nearly falls over. It’s a perfect uppercut, should have landed square on Lucifer’s jaw, but of course. Lucifer’s not real. His laughter, sick and hysterical, plays like a broken record in Sam’s head, bounces off the walls of their tiny motel room. Dean rolls over, makes a sound in his sleep, but Sam can’t even hear it. 

He whips around, searching the room for wherever Lucifer’s reappeared. It’s dark, but he thinks he might be back in the corner, propped up against the wall, watching Sam like he’s the fucking cutest thing. Sam’s shaking all over, but he brings his palms together, grinds his thumb as hard as he can into the smooth, marbled pink of his palm, the notches from Dean’s old stitching. Again. Again. Lucifer keeps laughing, takes a few steps out of the shadows. “You know,” he says in an oily voice, eyes glowing in the dark, tongue making _tsk tsk_ noises against the roof of his mouth. “Some people think the definition of crazy is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results.” 

Sam doesn’t _want_ to wake Dean up. Dean’s been having a hell of a time sleeping since they lost Bobby, the whole vengeance thing has gotten him more darkness under the eyes and restless hours than it’s gotten him Dick. When he crashed early, Sam swore he wouldn’t get him up. He wouldn’t go crawling all over his body like he sometimes did, he wouldn’t spread Dean out from the axis of his spine and fix his mouth all over him until his eyes got so green and glassy they looked like snow under the reflection of an emerald sky, his mouth pinker and wetter and so full of gasps. Sam is greedy, more greedy now that he’s crazy. Dean doesn’t need that, on top of Dick. He needs to sleep. 

Still, Sam hovers on the edge of reason, seriously contemplating waking Dean up, making him do something, help him, sink his hands in his brain up to the wrist, cradle the tissue there, keep it safe. As if Dean is capable of saving him now. 

But Sam’s desperate, he needs to quiet the chatter of Lucifer in his left ear, the repeated taunts of _I’m here to stay, you can’t escape, because I am a_ part _of you_ , I am you. Plus, Sam knows under all his grand, self-less attempts to preserve his brother, the real reason he’s afraid to take what he needs it because _he’s_ weak. Too weak to admit he remembers hell, to weak to ever tell Dean, _in the cage, the Devil made me fuck him just like I fuck you, he kissed the back of my neck when I tried to sleep, just like you do_. Too weak to allow Dean to know he’s _changed_ since hell, that he’s not the baby brother Dean lost to the apocalypse. He’s terrified of not being that brother, because that brother, _that_ Sam, the old Sam with his old scars, is the one Dean loves. This one is a different creature, chewed and spit and ground into dust, burning up from the inside out. 

“Oh, wittle baby Sammy,” the devil coos, puckering his lips. “Afraid big-brother won’t love you the same if he knows I’ve made you mine?”  
 “Shut up,” Sam says again, voice hoarse. He’s creeping towards Dean’s bed, in spite of himself. He’s going to take what he needs, because he can’t breathe on his own anymore. 

He knows what Dean would say, though. It’s what Dean always says. _Let me breathe for you, Sammy._ Eyes wide and aching, hands smoothing over his face, his hair. _Jesus fucking_ christ, _Sam, let me take care of you. It’s what I’m for. It’s what I am._

Sam has heard this plea so many times. He and Dean, they’re more than desperate to take care of the other one. But asking for help? For himself, _from_ Dean? It’s another story. He digs his thumb into his scar one last time, so hard muscles and tendon in his palm feel compressed and electric, but the devil stays. “That tickled, babyboy,” he says through a smile, in the imperfect mimic of Dean’s voice. 

And he breaks. Reaches out with both hands, drags Dean’s shoulder towards him, opens his sleeping body up. And the warmth that radiates from Dean is _different_ from the devil, it smells like Dean, it’s sleep-heat, safe and trapped under the sheets. Sam slides into it, drowns in it. Slats his thumbs against the hollows beneath Dean’s clavicles because they’re meant to fit there, pushes his brother’s body into the hot tangle of sheets. 

Dean’s eyes flash, becoming instantly clear as he reaches back for Sam, griping his tee-shirt in both palms. “Sammy? You okay? Whats--”

“Precious. Absolutely _precious_ , you two, if only I had a camera!” Lucifer says, reminding Sam that he’s there, watching. In the back of this room, the back of his mind.

Sam splays Dean’s loose, slow-moving legs with his body, slides his fingers up to the column of his throat before he crushes their mouths together, kissing Dean so hard he feels his teeth through his lips. He forces his tongue into Dean’s mouth, tasting the sour misery of hours-old whiskey and nightmares, but he licks it away until he can taste Dean underneath all that. Then he pulls away, panting, ears ringing with Lucifer’s catcalls and clapping. 

He doesn’t give Dean time to question him, just ducks his head into the warm sweat-and-sleep-smelling shudder of his pulse and starts begging. “Dean,” he chokes out, palms frantic and needy across his brother’s chest, where he can feel the hammering of a terrified heart. “Dean. Need you to hurt me. Now.” 

“What?” Dean says in a rough voice, sliding his hands up the taut, tempered muscle of Sam’s braced arms. 

“I _need_ you to hurt me,” Sam repeats, sliding his thumb into Dean’s mouth, pulling the wet heat open so he can tongue deep into it again. Dean allows it for a second then tears away, fumbling under Sam’s shirt with clumsy fingers so he can make sure his tattoo is still intact, that he’s not possessed. “Hallucinations,” Sam mumbles, explaining, brow pressed into Dean’s. “Palm’s not working, need something new. Please. _Dean_ , Please.” 

And Sam can _feel_ Dean thinking about it, deliberating because it goes against everything in his self-concept to outright _hurt_ Sam. But of course, he has. That’s all he’s done since their lives became one and the same again, since he hauled Sam out of Stanford because he could not do another fucking second of his life alone, without him. They hurt each other, it’s what they do. In some way or another, it is their most fixed destiny. So Sam feels Dean break too, under him, flooding them both with everything he dams up. 

“Okay, Sammy. Okay.” 

“Please,” Sam says again, urgently, covering Deans hand with his own, pressing it to his heart. 

“How?” Dean asks him, rising up, forcing Sam’s willing body into the mattress beside him, climbing on top and rucking Sam’s shirt up. “How do you want me to do it?” His hands are shaking.

“I don’t care,” Sam says, gritting his teeth because Lucifer is singing _Dead or Alive_ , he’s making kissy noises and reciting a filthy list of every place Sam has ever fucked his brother. _Dad’s bed, bobby’s attic, Impala, gas station bathrooms in St. Louis, Wichita, Los Banos, Southfork, Battleboro, Weschester_...Sam arches off the bed, digs his fingers deep into Dean’s shoulder. “However. With your nails. Your teeth.” 

Dean doesn’t waste time, which is almost surprising given how hard this must be for him. He holds Sam down. The first thing he does is bite him, _hard_ , on the shoulder. Just sink his teeth in as deeply as they can go, leaving little valleys in the shape of his mouth in hard muscle. Sam arches into the pain, hear’s Lucifer’s voice cut out for a few seconds. It sounds like losing a radio station when driving under a bridge. “Again,” he gasps, and Dean listens, biting him this time on the side of the neck, where his blood thrums rapidly between tendons too taut. He drags his blunt nails down Sam’s sides, too, as deep as he can, and Sam can feel little rolls of his own skin getting taken under Dean’s fingers, stripped away from himself. It feels perfect, right. He pushes himself into it, his breath coming out in graceless huffs of pain. 

Dean’s mouth moves all over him, the broad expanse of his chest, down his ribcage and to his stomach, taking deliberate, intentional, excruciating bites of him as he goes. Sam can feel the skin coming away from the muscle, delicate things inside of him breaking and crumbling, blood vessels reduced to under-the-skin purple smatterings welling inside the center of half-moon imprints of Dean’s teeth. Dean bites him, digs his thumbs into him, his nails, twists his hands into Sam’s hair and pulls it.    
Sam is so taken, so worked-over and crumpled and exhausted under Dean’s weight that he can’t hear Lucifer, can’t see him or smell him, feel the burn of hell smoldering in the corner of the room. Maybe he’s gone. He can’t tell. Dean palms the back of his skull, brings him close and kisses him, bites his lower lip. “Sammy,” he mumbles, hand sliding under the waistband of Sam’s jeans to comb through the dark hair curled there, to smooth back up over the hard plane of his abdomen. “Can I make you bleed?” 

Sam doesn’t even _think_ , he just throws his head back, lets Dean nip at his throat. “Yes,” he answers automatically, wanting it with his body, with his broken mind. “Yes.” 

Dean’s heat is gone for a moment, vaulting across the room so he can stumble blindly to his duffel bag, dig through it and come back with his favorite pocketknife, the one with the pearl laid into the handle that Caleb gave him for his eleventh birthday. It glints in the night, and the room seems empty save for them, but still, Sam wants a blade under his skin. He wants a scar, something he can dig his fingers into, something _real_. Real, like pain. Like Dean. He sits up, clumsily wiggles out of his jeans and kicks them off the bed. 

“Where can I?” Dean asks breathlessly, straddling Sam’s hips and pressing a wet kiss to the stark, tense line of his oblique. 

Sam shakes his head. “Anywhere you want.” And it’s true. I’m yours, he doesn’t say, because Dean already knows. 

His brother bends over him, holding the knife in a sweaty hand. He flips the blade out with his thumb, smooths his hand down the top of Sam’s thigh, then up to his hip, the place where the waistband of Sam’s jeans will always rub, will always insist is breakable. He presses the metal into Sam’s skin, and it’s warm from his hand as he slices Sam open in one quick, precise incision, winces more than Sam does like it hurts him, too. 

It hurts worse than Sam anticipated, which is _good_ , what he wanted. Sam has cut himself so many times before, when he needed his blood for a ritual or summoning spell or to prove he wasn’t a shapeshifter. Countless times, but it never stung like this, as pure and stomach-curling as it does when it’s coming from Dean. He arches off the bed, into Dean’s other hand, which is firm but tremulous on his ribcage. “Okay, Sammy?” He asks, looking pale and stricken in the headlights leaking in through their window. Sam nods, screwing up his face, biting his own lips. 

“Again,” he begs, but Dean is already there, cutting him up like he always has, with his hands this time instead of his soul, his words, his mortality. 

They both watch the blood, which is black in the night, well up and drip down Sam’s hip onto the sheets until Dean gets that look in his eyes, the one which makes them snow-glassy, receiving end of a emerald sky. He drops his mouth, and fixes it onto the place where he’s split Sam apart, and worries the edges of torn skin with his tongue, sucks whatever he can get straight out of him. 

Sam groans, hand involuntarily spasming as it latches onto the back of Dean’s neck, holding him in place. And this, this is what he needed to silence the devil. Dean inside of him, on top of him, all over him. Making new favorite spots, new scars to love on a new Sam. “So good, Dean” he mumbles, twisting on the bed, mind full of static and want and a familiar burning. He feels on fire with the knowledge that Lucifer isn’t watching. And this, this is _different_. Being taken by Dean, rather than _taking_ him. Being worked over and over by his hands until he’s one raw, throbbing, hungry nerve, all sensation and blind feeling. Dean crawls up him on shaking limbs, lips stained red with Sam’s blood as he palms over Sam’s hard, leaking cock. 

He kisses Sam; he tastes as pure as iron. “Need to fuck you” he says in a shaking voice, collecting precum on his fingers, dragging them under Sam’s balls and smearing the slickness into the crease of Sam’s ass. 

“Fuck. Dean. Anything, you can have anything,” Sam mumbles thickly, spreading his thighs so Dean can touch more of him. Dean sucks his breath in sharply, licks the corner of Sam’s mouth. And it’s not just his hands, now, it’s the whole of him, his whole body thrumming and shuddering and shaking beside Sam, stuck in a tiny, desperate tremor. He spits on his fingers, eases one inside. Sam winces. He’s not used to this, being on this end of it. But Dean knows what he’s doing, he knows how to start slow then push up against toward’s Sam’s pubic bone, he knows how to take Sam’s dick deep in his throat to smooth the sting of invasion away with the infernal heat of his mouth. 

Dean flips him over, keeps him stretched over three fingers up to the second knuckle, spreads him out onto his stomach, and Sam _lets_ him. Just lets him manipulate his body, inside and out, palms hungry and desperate as they spread his ass apart, the length of Dean’s dick aligning with him, sliding up the crease, nudging at his hole. “You want me inside?” he asks in a broken voice full of breath and shattered syllables, one hand mauling up Sam’s side, under his heavy, slack body to fist his twitching cock for a few seconds to make sure he’s still hard for him. 

“Need you inside, Dean,” Sam says, turning his head so he can press his cheek to Deans as Dean bears down on top of him, pushing his cockhead into him. It only half-hurts, a dull burn. Just sensation, pure and overwhelming, edging close to the sting of his hip where Dean cut him open but not quite. He bends his spine, hooks it low in his back so he’s pushing back up into Dean, down the remaining few inches of his dick not yet buried inside him. 

Dean’s panting hard, hands flexing its grip on Sam’s lower back, an crazy, involuntary, trying-to-hold-on clenching-unclenching against Sam’s flesh. He loves knowing Dean won’t be able to last long inside him, he loves knowing it doesn’t even matter how good it feels, the mere idea that he’s inside his baby brother, his babyboy, will do it for Dean. Make him lose it, tumble off the edge, spilling into Sam with a desperate snap of his hips. Sam grinds his own dick into the sheets, backs himself up onto Dean, testing how much of this new, foreign, perfect pain he can take. He decides he can take all of it, he _needs_ it, to keep the devil away, to mark him up perfect with new favorite spots, to save him. Because it’s real. And Sam so badly needs Dean to show him what is real right now. 

Dean starts fucking him slow, deep strokes with one hand hot and guiding on his hip, the other wrist deep in his hair, pulling him up to extend his throat. Sam takes it, amazed by the willingness with which his body swallows his brother. The other times Dean has fucked him he only remembers hazily, drunken memories, soulless memories. He wants to hold onto this, though, keep it inside him forever.

Eventuallt it’s not enough, it stops _hurting_ , it’s just a deep, delicious heat building in his gut. “Dean,” he hisses, arching his back, thrusting gracelessly against the mattress. “Fuck me. Need you to fuck me, _really_ fuck me,” he begs, fumbling behind him to pull Dean into him again, grip his ass and slam his hips against his own body. Dean makes a broken noise, and bites Sam’s shoulder, a new bite layered onto an old one, a crisscross of new white valleys and blood bruises. 

“Fuck,” Dean groans desperately, grinding his forehead into the nape of Sam’s neck, skin slick with sweat. “You want me to fuck you hard? Harder, Sammy?” 

“Hard as you can,” Sam grunts, tasting salt and metal on his own lips, the echo of of Dean’s spit as it stung in the place on his hip. 

“God,” Dean moans, pulling Sam’s hair, filling his vision with white explosives, heat climbing in his cheeks. “You need me so bad. Need me to take you, baby, need me to fuck you until you can’t feel anything but my dick in your ass, babyboy, need me in you--” And Dean’s words deconstruct themselves, fall to pieces and shatter into a torn, animal shout as he empties himself deep into Sam, filling him up like Sam knew he would, stinging and burning and _real_. Sam comes on the sheets, burning up, burning from the inside, clenching his fists on either side of him, breathless and crushed under his reality. 

And it’s been a long time since Sam’s reality was a comfort. A long time since he needed Dean to breathe for him, to fill him up, to hold his bones up with his own. Dean pulls out, dick filthy and wet and hot and soft as it slides against the back of Sam’s thigh. Sam feels hollowed out, hurting all over, broken in every place there is something in him to break. 

“Sammy?” Dean asks, dragging Sam’s boneless, spent body towards him like it were much lighter than it is. “Good?” He thumbs open Sam’s eyelids, green snow flickering as night becomes dawn. Sam kisses him, rubs his hands across his shoulders, his sternum, his back, the rough, sweaty, Dean-scented reality too heavy and hurting on top of him. Sam pulls away and says, “Thank you,” calm and even, before sealing their mouths together again. The devil is silent, until he hears a nagging whisper somewhere neat his cerebral cortex. 

“Gosh, looks like I missed all the action. All I ever get are the sweet, cuddly, _disgusting_ Kodak moments, Sam, _really_. You should let me--”

Sam lets go of his brother with one hand, and digs his fingers into the new incisions on his hip, the pain and the reality by Dean’s hand. Lucifer falls silent, and disappears with a flicker and a whiff of sulfur.


End file.
